


Painting Rooms at Midnight

by BabylonsFall



Series: Three-Card Monte [3]
Category: Leverage
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Established Relationship, Multi, Nightmares, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-20
Updated: 2017-12-20
Packaged: 2019-02-17 17:45:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,254
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13082013
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BabylonsFall/pseuds/BabylonsFall
Summary: A Thief, a Hacker, and a Hitter have nightmares. Surprise?(Surprise or not, they still have to learn how to deal with them. Together.)





	Painting Rooms at Midnight

**Author's Note:**

> Okay so. I wrote this about a week and a half ago now, when I was having a really bad day. Week. Whatever. Looked back over it, decided to clean it up a bit, and post it because it does actually have points I really like, so, hope you do too!
> 
> Quick note: while none of the nightmares are explicit, Hardison does point blank list out the bare-bones details about his, which relate to events in the show (namely, being buried and almost-drowning), just as a heads-up. If you think this needs more warnings, please feel free to let me know.

Parker never called them nightmares, so the boys didn’t either. Nightmares required...pictures. Like dreams. Or at least, some sense that you had seen  _ something _ , even if you couldn’t describe it later.

That’s not what these felt like, she’d told them, those handful of times she had wanted to say _ anything _ about them. These were...jittery. Like sparks across her skin, across her nerves. Left her feeling worn out and wired at the same time. Looking over her shoulder for  _ something  _ and wanting to bolt before whatever it was could get to her.

Without fail, they drove her out of bed, either out onto the fire escape or up into the vents. Where she could run or where she could hide until the feeling stopped chasing her, stopped searching for her.

The first couple of times it had happened, when her and Hardison started sharing same bed more often than they didn’t, Hardison had freaked out. Understandably, really. He’d woken up and she’d just been gone. Especially that first time, when she hadn’t come back until late in the morning. And he tried to make it seem like things were fine with him, like he hadn’t spent most of the night worrying about her—and that was. New. Having someone around to worry, where she went at night. She hadn’t known really, how to react. Except to say sometimes she left. She’d come back. She’d always come back. Promise.

That had seemed to settle him at least. And he’d never tried to make her  _ stop  _ of course—that wasn’t him. But, he’d tried to figure it out, like he did with everything new. Tiptoed around and carefully worked out what he could do, what she needed. He didn’t always get it right, not at first, of course not, that would be asking too much. But he got better, quickly.

If she went out running and came back before dawn, he’d make space for her on the bed without a word, wrap back around her like she’d never left, staying awake until she went back to sleep, just in case she wanted to talk. If she was out until the morning (or, one time, the evening) the next day, Hardison made sure there was food waiting for her from one of their favorite take out places, let the quiet take over the apartment until she was ready to fill it, however she wanted to. Sometimes they talked. Sometimes she goaded him into Mario Kart. Sometimes (most times), she picked a conversation they never finished from the day before and off they went, easy as anything.

If she went to the vents...well. Hardison, as soon as he woke up (and he always, always did), noticed she was gone, noticed the window closed and locked, would knock lightly on the wall. If she wanted company, a simple knock back, and he’d clamber up with her, settle in beside her, and they’d chatter, softly, about anything and everything, until they were ready to come down. She’d been worried, those first few times he’d joined her, about how he’d handle the space. It seemed though, as long as the vents stayed clean and he was in arm’s reach of the grate, he did just fine. And, if he started looking a little...uneasy. Well, easy enough to get them out, easy enough to focus on him instead then.

If she stayed quiet, then nothing, and he’d roll over and go back to sleep, trust her to take care of herself.

It was...easy. It worked. Sometimes she needed space. Sometimes she wanted Hardison close. They worked it out.

She’d been...well, not worried. Maybe anxiously curious? How things would change, when Eliot stopped tiptoeing around them, let himself be dragged into their home and eventually into their bed.

Turns out, they really didn’t.

He woke up, the first time she went out the window, because of course he did. He’d poked his head out after her, just as she was climbing the fire escape, hair mussed up and clearly still half-asleep, but eyes bright and with a worried tilt to his mouth. She’d just shaken her head, given a “be back soon,” and kept going.

She found out later that he’d asked Hardison. Asked and listened. And what Hardison couldn’t explain, he’d worked out for himself, in time.

The only thing he asked her, point blank, was that she’d tell him, if she needed something else. He’d stick with the rhythm her and Hardison had worked out, because it clearly  _ worked _ , but he wasn’t a mind reader. They both knew it’d be hard for her to ask for anything like that, but she promised to try, and he smiled like that was all he wanted.

Now, she came home and found a space for herself between her two boys, easy as anything, both of them breathing softly and letting her fill the silence if she wanted. If she didn’t, if she just wanted to curl up under the blankets, let them ground her, that was okay too. If dawn chased her heels inside, she found plates full of pancakes or waffles on the counter while Hardison and Eliot puttered around—clearly waiting for her to come home but wanting to give her space. She liked that, that Hardison now had someone to wait with, if he needed. 

If a rough night chased her into the vents, Hardison still sometimes joined her, but Eliot had taken one look at the vent and muttered something about “no way in hell am I fitting in there,” nevermind that Hardison did just fine since they’d had the vents specially modified  _ for  _ this (but it had made both her and Hardison laugh, and she’s pretty sure that’s what he’d been going for anyway). Instead, he’d tossed a pillow and a blanket up after them (which, brilliant, and why hadn’t they thought to do that at any point, really?), then dragged a chair over to the wall under it, dropped down with a book, and kept watch all night.

She’d never felt safer, with Hardison pressed up beside her, warm and real, and Eliot watching the only way to get to them, occasionally grumbling and flipping a page too loudly to let them know he was still there.

* * *

Hardison never really...got nightmares. Not what he considered ‘real’ ones anyway. (Not that he ever admitted that to Parker or Eliot, because he knew it wasn’t right, and he knew they’d trip over themselves to call him out on it, but still.) Sure, he had the occasional dream where he was falling. Where he was being chased by some nameless figure (especially after a horror movie night, like, you know, most people). And sure, those were nightmares, but they weren’t...they didn’t…

He could go back to sleep after them, just fine, if he ever woke up in the first place. Those were fine. Normal.

Then. And then.

He watched Parker get tasered and dragged away, while he was stuck in an office unable to do anything, as the environment around them literally hunted them down, as he tried to get to her in anyway he could but couldn’t step beyond the door. He felt water pouring into his lungs even though he knew he’d never taken a breath, a watery figure standing over him that he couldn’t make out but knew for sure was Eliot (later, later, with Eliot beside him, either knocked out or trying to reach him and yet unable to actually move). He tasted dirt and mud and dust as the earth swallowed him whole. He heard static as Parker’s comm cut out, racing to where she’d jumped and finding a cut piece of rope, unable to look over the side. He heard nothing, absolutely nothing, despite his own screaming, yelling, begging for Eliot to answer on the comms.

_ Those  _ were nightmares.

And goddamn he wanted to just...fall again. Be chased again. Something normal. Something without a name. Without faces that would follow him into the waking world.

He didn’t know when Parker noticed something was wrong, those first couple of times after they started sleeping in the same bed. Just that, one night, he was able to slip out of bed, go splash water in his face (it had been a bur-...not the pool this time, so water was fine), breathe and breathe and breathe, and then slip back into bed just fine, still awake and still breathless, but settled. And the next time, she was waiting outside the bathroom door, nose scrunched up and eyes worried as she tried to figure out what to do. He didn’t know what his face did just then—he’d been trying to smile, to ease her worry—but her face crumpled and suddenly she was hugging him tight and he just.

He had felt  _ safe  _ like that, safer than he’d ever had, waking up from one of those dreams. So he’d wrapped his arms tight around her in return, buried his face in her neck and just let himself breathe. If it sounded something like a sob, well, neither of them mentioned it. He didn’t know when they relocated back to the bed, that night, only that at some point he must’ve fallen back asleep, somehow, because he woke up the next morning with his head on Parker’s shoulder and feeling better than he ever had after a night like that.

They never talked about it. Not really. Hardison knew they  _ should  _ have. If only so she could know why sometimes he needed to hold her a little closer, or why sometimes he needed a moment to himself to breathe before he curled up with her.

But they didn’t. He knew they  _ would  _ have. Eventually. Until Eliot sat him down one morning—after a night where he’d sat bolt upright, breathing hard and rough and realizing he’d probably been yelling if his throat was that raw.  _ That  _ bad of a night wasn’t a common thing, thankfully, but it did happen—and asked him, point blank, if he wanted to talk. Or if he just...needed anything.

He might’ve flailed a bit. Rambled a little, to try to get Eliot off his back. So sue him, he panicked a little bit. Eliot had given him a side-eye, then just sighed and moved to go back to the kitchen. Hardison didn’t know if  _ that  _ was what got him—that Eliot was willing to drop it if he needed to—or if he just...ran out of excuses at that moment.

Everything came out in a rush that, looking back, he’s not entirely sure made sense. And he kept his eyes squarely on the ground the entire time—except. Once. He’d looked up, mid-rant, to see Eliot just listening, closer than he’d been but still giving him space, eyes soft, and Parker perched on the couch just behind him, listening in that intense way of hers that made most people uncomfortable but just assured him this was something important to her. He hadn’t been able to meet either of their eyes, and had immediately turned back to the floor.

It had been quiet, so quiet, when he’d finally stopped talking.

For all of a minute.

Then, Eliot was lightly shoving his shoulder, voice gruff and low like when he was trying to be serious to hide something else, “You should’ve said something.” It wasn’t a reprimand, and Hardison didn’t take it as one. But Parker and Eliot worked best with all the information, always had. And now they had it.

The next moment, he had a lapful of Parker peppering his face with chaste little kisses, and Eliot was pressed up against his side, arm heavy around his shoulders and pulling him close to press a firm kiss to his temple, and he couldn’t find it in himself to be embarrassed or flustered.

The next nightmare that had him clawing at the blankets, yelling and reaching for someone, anyone, to drag him out of the ground, out of the mud, he woke up to gentle hands, despite their calluses and scars, on his face. A gravelly, familiar voice telling him he was home, he was okay, breathe, just breathe. And as soon as he  _ could _ breathe without choking, without dirt tumbling down his throat, a glass of water was being pushed into his hands. He didn’t need to get out of bed, that night, didn’t need space at that exact moment—though, he noticed they left him room if he needed it, an easy space to slip out and away, to escape, rather than caging him in. Maybe he said something, maybe he didn’t, he didn’t remember later, but then he had strong arms curled around his shoulders, pulling him into the curve of Eliot’s chest, and a second later, smaller hands were wrapping around his own chest as Parker plastered herself to his back, gave him her weight, grounded him in the there and now. It was warm, and close, and he could breathe so, so easily.

* * *

Eliot doesn’t feel bad about hiding it from them, those first couple of months. What he  _ does  _ feel bad about, later, is the looks they shoot each other when they realize he  _ had  _ been hiding it. He wasn’t hiding it from  _ them  _ though, not intentionally.

It’s just.

Yeah, he had nightmares. He didn’t sleep all that long, most nights. He had nights where the idea of even falling asleep was laughable, but damn if he could say  _ why _ . But that. That was just how he was, at this point in his life. He knew how to handle everything the night could throw at him, and it didn’t really...occur to him, to change that, when he started sharing their bed.

He never wakes up yelling, because that would’ve gotten him killed so many times over. He never let himself go too long without some kind of rest, because damn him if he was going to let himself slip after so long fighting. He let himself enjoy being in bed with Hardison and Parker even if he knew he wouldn’t be getting any kind of sleep that night because it was  _ nice _ , and it’d been too long since he’d had something like that.

So, yeah, he didn’t feel too bad about hiding it. He didn’t really notice that he was.

They seemed to think differently though. And, since he got in their faces about their rough nights, he supposed it was only fair that, eventually, they ended up getting in his.

But he didn’t have anything to say, really. Two sets of too big, too bright eyes looking at him, hoping, though for what, he can’t say. But there was nothing he could give them.

Some nights, he was going to wake up, with a scream lodged in his throat, that wouldn’t escape for the end of the goddamn world. Some nights, he was going to be exhausted but unable to keep his eyes shut—too many faces, too many memories, too much going on inside his head. Some nights, he was going to be tired, but not enough to entice him to sleep, because seeing Parker and Hardison, curled up safe beside him, was so much more important than whatever demons were waiting for him.

(Some days, the lack of sleep got to him more than normal. Left him tense and brittle and...you know what. He’d bet that was what finally clued them in. They were good at reading him—so much better than they should be. If he spent too many days growling at nothing, tense in a way they normally associated with a fight, then yeah. They’d probably pieced it together.)

It wasn’t that he’d forgotten he was with two of the most stubborn people on the face of the planet. It was just...he’d kind of hoped they’d drop it. It was a  _ thing _ . That was it.

Of course that wasn’t it.

They were subtle about it, he’d give them that. In fact, it took him longer to notice than it probably should have.

Nights where he knew he wasn’t going to sleep, he found himself with two excitable partners, eager to show him the newest...something. Movie. Game. Lock. Anything. They didn’t always end up pulling all-nighters. But they were definitely pulling  _ more _ .

Nights where he found himself staring hard at the ceiling, breathing slow and easy by will alone to keep that scream in check, more often than not, he’d find himself in the middle of a position shift, with two half asleep thieves moving to put him in the middle, Hardison’s head ending up heavy on his chest and Parker curling into his shoulder, and suddenly, he didn’t have to think so hard about breathing right.

Some nights, he had to get up, move, work off some excess energy. Sometimes, that involved the gym they set up on the other side of the apartment. Sometimes, that involved disappearing into the kitchen. Either way, he only reappeared when dawn started slanting gold and bright through the window. If he came out breathing hard and unwrapping his hands, he could pretty much count on Hardison and Parker trying to figure out how to make pancakes. (He had to admit, they were getting pretty good at it). If he came out of the kitchen, it was almost always to bright, eager faces that promptly inhaled whatever plates he put in front of them, regardless of what it was.

On days he felt himself cracking around the edges...well, that they apparently decided to save until he got a clue. And he couldn’t say he blamed them.

And maybe he was just. Done. With it being a  _ thing _ . Especially when he caught up, realized his bad nights were fewer, with so many good ones in between. Realized he was averaging hours most night that would’ve had him crying with relief so many years ago. Realized just how comfortable he was with letting someone else ground him, just for a little while.

But, the day he felt his edges tearing, felt tense and brittle, and didn’t want to see Hardison and Parker’s worried faces (they tried to keep the looks to when he back was turned at least), he just. Went down the hall, to their bedroom. He knew they had to be confused, but, sure enough Parker and Hardison followed less than a minute later.

He didn’t think he could actually. Ask. (And yeah, the definitely made him a hypocrite.) So, he just sat on the edge of the bed, hands up on his knees, shoulders slumped because goddammit, he was  _ tired _ . That was apparently (blessedly), enough.

He was shoved back on the bed in the next moment, damn near manhandled to the center, the blanket being pulled up by Hardison and Parker leaning over to pull the shade on the closest window, before both of them were curling into his sides, arms thrown over his middle to keep him there.

And maybe the breath that burned into his lungs was a little too close to a choked sob than he was normally comfortable with, but they didn’t say anything about it, or about the probably too tight grips he had around their shoulders. And the quiet should have been heavy, should have been raw, but it wasn’t. It was exactly what he’d needed. And, even if he didn’t fall asleep that time, he did the next. And that was more than enough.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! Kudos and comments are always greatly appreciated!
> 
> (Title is butchered from The Crow & The Butterfly by Shinedown.)


End file.
